


His Better Half

by Lochinvar



Series: Amuse-bouche [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Colorado, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluffery, Happy Ending, Honeymoon, M/M, Magic, One Shot, POV Outsider, POV Third Person, Romance, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 22:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15229770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: Love is contagious.





	His Better Half

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/gifts), [Paradigmenwechsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigmenwechsel/gifts), [fufaraw (arliss)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arliss/gifts), [genevra1676](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevra1676/gifts).



> Own nothing; rely on the kindness of strangers.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated - thank you.

The etched silver ring hung from a chain around the stranger's neck. In the bar’s dim light it seemed to glow. Frank, the resident weekend hustler, was mesmerized. He was a topnotch recreational player, making a few extra bucks off of folks passing through the county on weekends. So far, the stranger was taking easy shots. Ambling through a beginner’s game.

Frank was good at reading people. Goes with the territory if you’re in sales. Tires and top-of-the-line used farm equipment. Had his own store on the edge of town. Sales to fleets paid the bills, but he liked personally ensuring someone’s granddad had safe tires, at a good price, to master Colorado’s roads in winter.

The stranger was in his late thirties, dressed in second-hand jeans and flannel, broad shoulders, strong jaw, short hair, tall, fit. Probably ex-military, and judging from the fresh oil stains on his clothes and his calloused hands, someone who made his living around machines.

“Like your ring. Wanna place a bet?” Frank asked, gesturing with his cue stick.

Frank dropped a stack of bills on the rail where their drinks rested. The stranger paused, smiled, and shook his head.

“No way. It’s my wedding ring. Custom made. Celebrating six months today. The ole ball-and-chain would kill me. Promised I wouldn’t play for money this trip. We’re on the road, heading back up to Kansas. Thought we’d have some fun. Nothing better than a roadhouse.”

The stranger rubbed the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

“Anyway, it’s magic. It’s all about love.”

Frank thought he might soften up his target’s resistance.

“But you don’t wear it on your hand…is it that unimportant?”

“Working on my car today," the tall man said. "Took it off so it wouldn’t get dinged up. Hey, thanks for the reminder.”

Deftly, the man fiddled with the clasp on the chain with one hand and let the ring fall into the other. Put the chain in his pants pocket.

“Can I look at it? It’s beautiful.”

Not words that came easy to middle-aged Frank. But the ring  _was_ beautiful.

The stranger hesitated a moment, debating with himself, and looked at Frank as if weighing his intent. Then looked away, towards the bar, as if seeking approval from an observer.

Shrugged and placed it on Frank’s open palm.  
  
“Be careful. Something happens to it, we’ll be celebrating my divorce, and maybe my untimely and messy demise.”

The ring was heavy, a solid weight. Felt more like a weapon than jewelry, like something a warrior would wear. It was carved with intricate symbols, inside and out, and a set of initials: DW + SW, which looked like what kids would carve with a knife into an old tree trunk. All that was missing was the arrow through a heart and the inscription: _True Love Forever._

It felt good to hold, the way well-made tools feel good. Balanced. An artifact created for a purpose and inevitable in its shape and heft.

Frank wondered how the feminine version might look on a smaller hand.

“What’s with the carvings?” asked Frank, trying to feign not more than a polite interest.

“Enochian,” said the stranger, as if Frank would know what that meant. Then noticed his confusion.

“Supposed to be the language of Angels. Sort of like Klingon. You can find alphabets and dictionaries online. My Sammy is more into that shit than I am. One of our nerdy friends helped, but, frankly, Sammy is Queen of the Nerds. That stuff, supposed to protect the wearer from harm, and, to quote our friend, ‘Will be fuel for and be fueled by your love’.”

The stranger made air quotes and grinned.

"It’s because my smart Sammy had both rings ‘Made with Love’”.

Without asking, the man plucked the ring from Frank’s hand and screwed it back onto his finger. With an air of finality. This is where it belongs.

“Supposed to generate love and grant wishes. Like catching the bouquet at a wedding or throwing pennies into a fountain. Lots of good mojo.”

He paused, staring at the ring.

“Never been happier. Would have never thought I’d like these chick flick moments.”

Frank could have sworn the images carved into its silver surface danced before settling down.

“And, dude, no offense, but takes a hustler to know a hustler.”

And with that, the stranger took an impossible shot and sent three balls bouncing around the felt and careening into the same pocket, one after the other. Smiled without malice.

“Just wanna have a little fun tonight. Drinks on the house. In honor of my better half.”

Frank tilted his head, grinned back, and stuck out his hand.

“Frank Payne.”

“Dean Winchester.”

They shook.

By silent consent, the game was over. They moved over to the main bar, where a grateful crowd of regulars had been taking advantage of Dean’s generosity.

Small bar and restaurant with pool tables and a bank of hi-def tv screens. In southwestern Colorado next to a county highway. The nearby town lived off the cash brought in by cattle, tourists, and state and federal government jobs.

And stores like Frank’s Tires and Equipment, which sold to the entire Four Corners region across state lines. Known to be fair to buyers from the nearby tribal nations. Discounts for military, active and retired. Good place to get a bargain on a secondhand tractor if you were starting up or needing a backup at hay-time.

The tables were filled with generations of ranch families and off-duty LEOs and Forest Service personnel, eating very good burgers and smothered chicken burritos and fry bread, with foamy pitchers of Coors and bottles of the state’s more popular craft beers.

All served with green chili on the side. Want red? Go to New Mexico–almost walking distance.

The tourists included an awestruck German family, experiencing the enormity of the American West (better than the online photos); members of a biker club (retired Army) on their way to California for a reunion; and a miscellany of truckers, college students from Ft. Lewis, migrant workers on their way to pick potatoes in the San Luis Valley, and the usual lonely flotsam and jetsam of rural life, male and female.

Frank glanced around the room, trying to guess which lucky girl was hooked up with Dean. Settled on a blonde, who was sitting at a table with the friendly bikers and chatting with a college student, a boy with long hair and deep dimples. She was wearing a short flirty white skirt, a pale blue tank top, and sturdy huaraches. Straight hair pulled back in a long, messy braid. Just a touch of peach lipstick. Long legs. Very long legs.

She sported an outdoor tan. Maybe a civilian working at the National Grasslands back in Kansas. Not a desk job. Maybe a botanist or someone in operations in the field.

Not pretty pretty, but had a way about her, how she smiled and laughed and drank her beer. Alive and healthy. Frank felt a stab of envy. And loneliness. His store did well, and he liked his work, but since that divorce from another lifetime–they married out of high school, too young, but smart enough to cut their losses before there were kids–he had not shared a bed for more than a night or two. And those nights were getting fewer as the years strolled by.

He wanted more. And the glow of happiness on Dean’s face when he mentioned his better half, well, Frank thought it wouldn’t be a bad thing, at all, even with the baggage that came with marriage, to be able to feel like that again.

Frank went up to the bar, Dean right behind him. Ordered two beers; figured to offer Mrs. Winchester a drink and congratulate her. Pointed at an amber ale on the display rack behind the bartender; hoped the blonde would take it as a compliment. Nothing too girly.

Two bottles of a good northern Colorado beer, opened, with glasses securely upside down over the tops. What a gentleman does: brings a lady a fresh glass.

He figured he guessed correctly, that he had picked the right woman, because Dean followed him as he walked up to say hello to the blushing bride. Dean was gripping two beers as well; Frank knew he could get there first, pretend to make a move on the blonde, stroke her ego, rile up the groom. All in fun.

“Ma’am,” he said, holding out the beer and glass.

She looked up from her conversation with the tall kid, who, up close, not so young. Maybe a college professor. Wearing a Stanford University t-shirt, red, a little tight, under a canvas jacket. His jean-clad legs barely fit under the table. A tall one.

The blonde had a cleft in her chin, a turned-up nose, and milk chocolate eyes. Lucky Dean, thought Frank. She grinned, took the beer and glass, and thanked him. Did not even glance at her husband, who was waiting patiently next to Frank, observing the play with a good-humored smile.

Frank knew he looked better than average. His Mexican mother gifted him with black hair, just turning silver at the temples, his skin tempered to the color of old oak. His cowboy father, from old Kentucky stock, gave him light blue eyes and a gaunt frame untouched by a lifetime of fried foods. Would live to be 95.

He knew he shouldn’t stare at her, particularly with her broad-shouldered man watching with interest. Was Dean some kinky son-of-a-bitch? Liked to see men admire his new wife? Would they talk about him later in bed?

Frank did not want to know. But, we will cut him a break, because she was staring back.  
  
She was holding the beer in her right hand. And that’s when he noticed she wore no jewelry on her left hand. No ring. Just an old-style analog watch with a steel band.

And that’s when Dean slipped around, handed his extra beer to the tall professor, and leaned over and kissed him, gently, on the mouth, not messy, but maybe a few beats longer than was proper.

“Sammy,” he said, when they broke apart, “This is Frank. He likes the rings.”  
  
And Frank looked down and saw a bigger version of the ring, shining on a broad hand.

“It’s Sam,” said Dean’s husband, and held out his hand. Firm grip. Man-to-man, but no bone-breaking machismo.

“And this is Myra,” Sam said, motioning to the blonde.

“Oh, are you the Frank I need to see about snow tires? Three people told me that I won’t survive with what I have. Just moved here from North Carolina. Working for the Bureau of Land Management.”

Myra put down the beer, and she and Frank shook hands. Actually, they sort of held hands. Dean and Sam looked at the couple, looked at each other, smiled, and seemed very pleased with themselves.

“Come on, Sammy,” said Dean. “Time for a slow dance.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but let Dean lead him away. And if anyone had any objections about seeing the two tall men wrapped around each other on the tiny dance floor, swaying in time to a Dolly Parton ballad, they did not step forward. Or follow them out to the parking lot, where the Impala waited under a starry night to take them back to the motel, just a mile down the road. To celebrate, again. And again.

Back at the roadhouse, Frank and Myra had a lot to say to each other, until they were kicked out at closing. Myra promised to come to the store first thing Monday morning for her new tires. Frank promised her a “friend of the family” discount.

Six months later, during the speeches at the wedding reception, half the town claimed to be at the roadhouse the night Myra and Frank met. 

 


End file.
